


A Study in Ink

by BorderlineOtaku



Series: A Study in Ink [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Abuse, Angst, Bullying, F/M, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Tattoo!lock, tattoolock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BorderlineOtaku/pseuds/BorderlineOtaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides one day he's had enough, and seeks the help of a professional to solve his problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock’s shoes clacked quietly with little echo on the polished hardwood floor of the tattoo parlor,the air inside much less musky and humid compared to the busy morning street, his long black coat swishing behind him as he headed to the front desk. His fingers twitched and balled into fists and released again in apprehension. His knees feeling a bit like jelly once the smell of the cleaners and disinfectants hit his nose. He approached the counter and rang the bell, taking a deep breath before finally surveying his surroundings. The counter was made of plexi glass, and inside were various piercings, earrings, and topical ointments he was sure he would need after this was all said and done. ‘H2 Ocean’ seemed to be the only brand inside the case, along with business cards and pamphlets on how to take care of your new tattoo or piercing. The brand must sponsor the shop or vice versa. To his left seemed to be a sitting area, with a glass door leading to another small sitting room, and a vending machine next to it.  
The small pleather couches arranged neatly with a large poster rack that was the length of the room jutted out from the wall, filled with tattoo designs. The brown coloring of the couches contrasted greatly with the bright green wall paint. He looked up when a woman with bright blue hair came around the corner. “Sorry!” She apologized and gave a small smile, a single silver piercing on the left side of her upper lip. Her eyes were wide and brown, and she wore a casual t-shirt and jeans. “I was cleaning up a station. My name is Naomi, and I’m apprenticing here. How can I help you?” Sherlock smelled the harsh aroma of dissisicide and another pang of nervousness washed through him, before he shoved it away and smiled at her. “I am looking for a John Watson, if you please.”

Naomi looked confused, but nodded. She headed around the corner again and Sherlock saw as she walked down the hallway and passed the door way and continued down the other side of the way Sherlock had come. He occupied himself with looking at the quite astoundingly large stone carved earrings, and wondered who the hell would mutilate themselves like that. Then he supposed maybe he shouldn't judge, as he was here to do some body modification of his own. He looked up at the door frame, black and red shirts bearing the name of the shop hung there, with price tags attached. He busied himself reading some of the health and safety awards the establishment had earned, framed newspaper clippings and posters of scantily clad women littered the walls. He turned his head to the open doorway as he heard two pairs of feet thumping on the floor, he assumed there was a basement judging by the hollow sound it made when anyone stepped a bit too hard.  
When she emerged, a shorter man, couldn't be taller than 5’ 6, Sherlock mused, followed behind her. He was in his late thirties, and obviously military. Sherlock was surprised at that, he had never heard of a veteran coming home to work in a tattoo shop. His hair was blond and still had a bit of a military cut, although time away from the army had allowed it to grow out some, deviating just slightly in a way that suited his tan face. He wore a red button up, and and a black blazer and trousers with nice and polished shoes. This also surprised Sherlock, everyone else he’d seen in the parlor had been in casual wear; jeans and t-shirt, ragged shoes. But John looked well dressed and very much not like what he had expected. He reached a hand out for John to shake, and he did. Sherlock noted the strong, but not crushing grip.

"Sherlock Holmes, pleased to meet you." He gave a small smile. John nodded. "Well, considering you asked for me personally, I assume you already know who I am." He smiled "What can I help you with, Mr. Holmes?"  
"Please, call me Sherlock. I’ve spent quite a bit of time carousing the internet for viable people to help me with my situation." He said, dropping John’s hand and clasping his own two behind his back, chest out and chin up. He looked into John’s deep blue eyes, and felt himself relax a little, he supposed he shouldn't be worried. John was clearly a professional. As John looked at him expectantly he took a deep breath and continued. "I am particularly fond of your colorful henna designs and watercolor technique. Your work is absolutely beautiful." he smiled then, and saw John stiffen before clearing his throat.  
"Ah, thank you. I do my best for all of my customers." he nodded. "Will you be wanting something today? I can show you my portfolio and you can choose something or-"  
"No." Sherlock interrupted, before delving into his pocket and pulling out a small envelope with John’s name on it,written in straight black calligraphy. The envelope was manila and thick, unsealed, with the top flap tucked neatly into the pocket. Sherlock handed John the envelope, who tentatively took it from his hands. John furrowed his brow as he felt the weight of it. Just what the hell was going on? For a split second, to his amusement, he wondered if he was being hired as a hit man. This has to be the strangest client he’s ever had. His eyes flicked up to Sherlock’s, whose own were gleaming with something like hope. John tried to put a color to those shining orbs, but they seemed to be just swirling masses of blues and grays and greens. Their clarity reminded him of blown glass bubbles held up to the light. The paper made a pleasing crinkling noise as his careful and nimble fingers worked the package open and his jaw dropped almost immediately. Realizing he must look stupid, he closed it briefly before asking "How much is in-?"  
"Four hundred pounds." he said, a smirk twitching at his lips. "That’s just incentive, though. You will receive four hundred more after the application of the ink. I wish for you to design a tattoo approximately 45 centimeters across and 18 centimeters down." he looked at John, who seemed to be in a state of total disbelief, like the wind had been knocked out of him, before snapping back into reality. "Right..do you have any thoughts or ideas?" he asked, the gears in John’s mind were turning frantically, noting Sherlock’s pale complexion he decided that any color other than black would contrast beautifully with his client’s skin, and he could just see the how the colorful splashes would dance across his pale demeanor and stand out exquisitely, begging to be noticed. Sherlock’s baritone voice interrupted his thoughts. "I would like you to include poppies, but everything else is free range. You have complete creative control of what goes on my skin as of right now."

John swallowed, replacing the flap on the envelope. This couldn't be real. “You don’t seem like that type of bloke to wonder into a tattoo shop and ‘just get something done’.” He prompted, raising an eyebrow. He fixed his gaze on Sherlock’s and held his ground, his curiosity overwhelming his professionalism. The shop was slow this time of day, it was only 11:30 so most of their clientele were either asleep or at their own jobs, stragglers occasionally walking in for a generic fluer de lee or to get their child’s name over their heart. John was having a quiet day, no customers yet, reading a good book when this dashing and posh man just barged in and handed him a staggering amount of cash. Esteemed looking grown men were a rarity, especially for something as expensive and flashy as this.  
Sherlock returned his gaze and smirked to himself, the amusement on his face not quite reaching his eyes, which were dark now, distant. He twiddled his fingers behind his back. “I need to get something covered up.” came the curt, deep reply, and his eyes quipped back up to meet John’s, snapping out of whatever memory he was stuck in.  
John’s eyebrows raised and he made an “O” with his mouth. “Got something embarrassing as a teenager and now you want it gone? Now we’re getting somewhere. Was it your girlfriend at the time’s name?” He smiled and jided in what he hoped came off as friendly.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area.." Sherlock trailed off.

"Oh. Boyfriend then?"

Sherlock fixed him with a quizzical look and stayed silent. John realized how that must have sounded and tried to backtrack, eyes widening a bit.  
"Which is fine, by the way-"

"I know it’s fine." Sherlock continued to fix him with a questioning gaze, brows furrowing a little as his eyes darted around a bit before he continued to bore holes into John’s.  
Somewhere behind them, Naomi coughed awkwardly and when the two turned to look at her, she rolled her eyes, throwing her hands up and walking off in the direction of the vending machines. John cleared his throat, straightening himself out-praying that the creeping flush he felt wasn’t visible. “Well, it would help in the final design to know what I was covering up. So if you wouldn’t mind, please follow me.” John nodded his head and Sherlock wordlessly complied, turning to indicate his willingness to follow John into the back room. As they walked, tension coiled in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach again. His knees felt weak and his fingers twitched, and every nerve in his body was telling him to bolt and hide. He willed this anxiety down, but still felt the fear scratching at the back of his throat. His breaths were short and quick, and he willed himself to be calm, despite the fluttering in his chest. His body was having a ‘fight or flight’ reaction. How trivial. Sherlock’s mind knew he was in no danger,that there was no threat, but his body was unconvinced. Once they reached John’s work space, which smelled of cleaning fluid and disinfectant and vaseline, he motioned for Sherlock to sit in the sea foam colored pleather covered medical recliner. Sherlock shrugged off his coat and hung it up on a blunt hook which jutted out from the wall. He stood still, staring at the ground rather than John.

"Will you please close those curtains?" his voice was barely above a murmur. The other artists in the work area had eyed the two of them, nodding their heads in hellos as they passed. John looked to them and gave a curt smile and nodded before taking the white curtains that hung from the ceiling on a track and pulling them shut, enclosing himself and Sherlock in their own space. In response, Sherlock let out a relieved sigh, turning around so that his back was facing John and shrugged off his own black blazer. He began to unbutton his white shirt. John sat in his small backless swivel chair, and waited patiently. Sherlock noted the walls as he slowly undid his buttons, covered in H2 Ocean advertisements and pictures of John’s art. He eyed a university degree, neatly frame and sitting nailed to the wall to his right. Oh. Army doctor. That was certainly interesting. When the dark haired man finally let his final layer fall from his shoulders, the fabric being held up and wrapped around his wait by his balled fists, John’s eyes grew wide and he sucked in a sharp intake of breath. The man sat completely stark still and held his breath in shock.  
There, in between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, it rested. craggy and bright pink, the lines raised and hellish. 

FREAK

Carved into his flesh,an ugly and painful stain on his otherwise perfectly normal skin. A dozen other marks cut into his skin too, like ugly tree roots, scattering in a cacophony raised lines trying to engulf him, like witch fingers branding his skin in a searing viscousness. Some of the scars were purple, others are dark pink to red color, and some sort old they had settled to brown or white. The wounds had been deep, judging by how high they rose from his back. John kept looking and unconsciously rose from his seat and stepped closer to get a better look, but stopped when Sherlock stiffened uncomfortably. He watched John in the mirror that was bolted to the wall opposite him, and breathed deep and even. John could see other scars on his shoulders, tiny and odd shaped things. Cigarette lighter burns, small and wrinkled and white. This man’s entire back screamed a thousand painful things and John wanted to hear none of them. His instincts as a doctor started to kick in, and wanted nothing more than to heal these old wounds, like he could will the abused tissue away with a firm swipe of the hand and kind words.  
"Who-why..?" He tired to speak out but he was already blinking back tears of sympathy. It was awful.  
"Kids can be cruel." Sherlock sighed, a hint of acid on his tongue as he said the phrase, the phrase his father had told him every time he came home with a new wound. Before adding his own.  
John cleared his throat, and licked his lips unconsciously, nodding at the sight before him. “Would you mind if I asked?”  
Sherlock simply shook his head, looking down at his own shoes in the mirror, soft curls bouncing lightly.  
“Please. I’d prefer not to answer.”

"Alright." he said, and a long moment passed, the silence tangible and the only thing they could hear was the quiet hum of the air conditioner. 

"Does it still hurt to be touched?" John asked cautiously.

"Occasionally."

"Then it’ll feel like fire getting any work done. Are you sure you want to go through with this? Because I’ll do it, and you can even keep the extra four hundred quid. But I want you to know that it will not be pleasant." John had adopted a clinical tone, out of sheer habit, and he hoped he didn’t come off as harsh.  
Sherlock abruptly flung his shirt back over his shoulders, and began to button it quickly. “When will you have the final design complete?” He asked, snapping his cuff buttons through their slots expertly. John blinked and thought for a moment while Sherlock replaced his black blazer to his shoulders, smoothing out any imperfections before buttoning that up as well.  
"Give me about three days. Here," The ex-army doctor took a card from his front breast pocket, and extended it to his client as it rested between his index and middle finger. "Number’s on the back. Don’t hesitate to text or..whatever." John waved his hand passively in front of his face. 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked, casually placing John’s number into his contacts list, admiring the the wispy image of a bug eyed black fish swimming in a white sea with streaks of color.  
John gave him a disbelieving look. “How did you know? That’s not even on the website-“

"I didn’t know, I noticed." He quipped back before his mobile rang out with a text alert. Shoving his hand into his trouser pocket he fished out the device, read the message and quickly tapped on the keys of his blackberry before shooting it off to whomever it was.

"Sorry, got to dash. Scotland Yard is having a collective meltdown of stupid. Again." 

John’s jaw dropped “You’re a police officer? You work for Scotland Yard?”

"Not exactly." Sherlock smirked as he replaced his giant black coat. 

“‘Not exactly’? What does that even mean?” John couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Sherlock ripped back the curtains with force, and then strode over to the door frame to the hallway that lead back to the front door, and leaned on the support beam.

"If you’re curious about what it is that I do, then the address is 221B Baker Street." And then he did something that John had not seen coming at all. The cheeky bastard clicked a wink at him, that smirk still plastered to his face, and nodded, "Afternoon." and with that he was gone, his long coat flowing out behind him before it slipped from view. John heard the front door open, and close again, then all was quiet once more.

Bugger.

Charming.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody needs a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so long! I thought the foundation of ASiP was really important for their friendship and their mutual trust in each other to really begin. As always, constructed criticism is always welcome and encouraged! Also, please comment or leave kudos so I know you enjoyed it/want more..it would be much appreciated :)

_It was hot and dry, boots thumping wildly against the cement underneath as a squad of 8 men hurried towards cover, breathing ragged and panicked. Bullets flew past, knocking into nearby trees and tearing into the foliage. It was a fire fight. Rugged screaming, barking out orders and scared but determined replies-the clicking and clanking of metal. One man put an object to his teeth and pulled, quickly throwing it into the distance._

_1, 2, 3._

_An explosion echoed through the remains of concrete and civilized life followed by the incoherent screaming of men, talking in a language none of those men could understand. The constant clacking from they're weapons and tactical yelling the background noise to John's life at the moment. Beneath him lay a soldier, eyes cloudy and lips spurting blood, the wound in his diaphragm and John knew he could not save him, not out here, not like this, not with bullets whizzing by and pinging of the concrete walls sending small flurries of dust into the dry air. But still, his hands were covered in blood as he tried to stop the bleeding and get the mans vest off. "Watson-" he croaked, clinging to the doctor's arm, he lifted his other hand to yank away his dog tags, and held them out for John to take, his dark skin covered in cuts. "Shutup, McCloud." John had grit through his teeth, he was not listening to another goodbye. Not again._

_"s'ok" McCloud sighed, and when John clasped his hands around the two tinkling pieces of metal his head fell back and John watched the light drain from his eyes, with a numb feeling in the pit of his gut. Alan McCloud had two children and a wife in Brighton. John slid his tags into his pocket, and placed his hand over McClouds eyes to close them. He could not dwell. Others needed him. But as he turned around he was greeted with a horrid sight. The rebels had surrounded them, at least a dozen or so. John put his hands above his head, assuming the position with the rest of his squad, the POW stance. A man walked towards him, with dark tan skin and black hair slicked with sweat, and said something in his language that John could not understand. "_

_Where is your captain?" the man repeated, more annoyed and stepping even closer, voice loud and hoarse, asking the question in broken English._

_"It's me." John had said, looking the man in the eyes. John felt a cold smack on the back of his head, and everything was dark._

 

John awoke with a gasp, greedily sucking in as much air as his mouth would allow. He was covered in sweat, nerves tingling and ready for fight or flight. He sat upright for a few moments, and slowly his brain caught up with his eyes. His bedroom was quiet, the sunlight just peeking in through the cracks and shining a dull light inside, just another shade of gray. He lowered himself a little, before letting himself fall backwards into the sheets. He felt a knot in his stomach twist and climb to his throat. He put his hand over his forehead and leaned to the side, clamping his mouth shut as he started to curl in on himself uncontrollably. Forcing himself to breathe slowly and full, in through the mouth, out through the nose, did he calm enough to keep his tears away. Crying would do no good.

'I need to move on.' he thought weakly to himself.

It was only yesterday that John had met his newest client, the one whom he'll be designing his biggest piece yet for. Today was his off day, and he was looking forward to a relaxing afternoon of leisurely working on Sherlock's tattoo. He forced himself up and out of bed, and he stood up in his room for a long while, not moving, not thinking. Lost somewhere between the need to give up and the need to trudge onward. Eventually he chose the latter. "Right." He said to himself, and walked out of his small bedroom and then off into his small kitchen, and put the kettle on. He thought about breakfast for a tick, and eyed some of the apples he had bought just two days ago, but he sighed and decided against it. He wasn't really hungry. While he waited for his water to boil, he went about setting up his work station which was in the living room, gathering his fountain pens and brushes, laying them out on a large sheet of paper and then gathering his watercolor pallet box, opening it up and setting aside the various, dirty and clearly well loved trays of pigment before going back to the kitchen for a large cup of water and copious amounts of paper towels. His desk was divided into three parts, the inks and pens on the left side, and the paints and brushes on the right, and the paper in the middle. He then carefully reached up the middle of his desk, pulling a latch at the end and applying pressure to the opposite side and tilting the surface of his desk up and about a 40 degree angel before stopping, a notch in the gears under the surface catching and keeping it there with a rather loud "clank" noise. He opened the small drawer on his right and pulled out scotch tape, and quickly taped the very corner edges of his large paper to the desk, ensuring that it goes nowhere. His kettle started screaming in the kitchen, and after he had steeped his tea he came back to sit in his comfortable computer chair, setting his mug aside among his paints and set out to work. The time now was 4:00 in the afternoon, and John sighed and ran stressed fingers through his hair. He looked down at his work, unsatisfied with it. He knew he hadn't known Sherlock more than about 40 minutes, but he still felt that his work was....empty.

It didn't quite capture the man, and he clenched his jaw in frustration at realizing that he really knew next to nothing about Sherlock. He tried not to think about his back, about the tears in his skin, about how painful it must have been. He wondered if he'd had any friends, or if he had survived this long on his own. It was hard for John to imagine someone like Sherlock having much trouble, he seemed a bit eccentric but he was handsome and clearly intelligent- John knocked away the rest of that thought with a baseball bat. As if on cue, his phone chimed, and John was confused. He normally didn’t get any messages or calls this early in the day, and he jammed a tired and frustrated hand into his pocket, sliding his phone screen up witch a satisfying "click" to reveal the keyboard before reading.

_I see you weren't as curious as I'd hoped about what it is that I do.-SH_

John's mouth twitched up at the corners, amused. But before he could reply another text message came in.

_I forgot to mention yesterday, it seems we share a friend in common.-SH_

John gave his phone a look then. A friend in common? He knew the world was small, but by God exactly how small could it really be?

_Who's the friend?-JW_

John wracked his brain for who they could possible know mutually. He'd lost touch with damn near everyone since he came home, the only people he really ever sees are those in the shop, and they were nice people, don't get him wrong, but they just weren't his type. John was interested in none of the things they were, and vice versa. But small talk with them was nice, comfortable. He dug his toes into the carpet, it was scratchy and soft at the time same, and was probably due for a cleaning actually. His phone chimed. Mike Stamford. He's the one who suggested you to me after he caught me getting frustrated with my lack of results on my own.-SH John didn't know how to respond, good thing he did't have to. Seems Sherlock wanted to do all the talking. He also told me you were looking for a flat share. As it turns out, so am I.-SH John blinked at his phone.

_You want to flat share with me?-JW_

_Glad you asked. I have a nice place in central London, I trust you remember the address. I'll meet you there in an hour. I'm finishing up at the morgue.-SH_

Judging by the tone in the text, John assumed with a smile and a shake of the head that this; was not up for debate and he should see the flat. It was just as well, he really needed to get out of his flat, he was beginning to feel confined. Alright.-JW And with that, he marched into the bathroom to shower, fully aware that he has to be losing his mind. That is the only explanation for this. About an hour later, John was in the backseat of a black London cab, dressed in dark jeans and his oatmeal colored jumper, his brown loafers tapping nervously on the floor boards, being driven to a complete strangers flat. His leg had begun to bother him quite a lot, so swallowing his pride he had brought his cane with him, and he looked towards it now with disdain. He supposed it would be better to have it and be a little embarrassed, then to not have it and be unable to walk and be completely mortified. It was still fairly bright outside, and when the cabbie pulled up to the flat, he was pleased to see Sherlock just arriving on foot. He quickly thanked and paid the cab driver before exiting the vehicle, before extending his arm out to shake Sherlock's hand. Sherlock gave a polite smile before turning, and John noted the small cafe; Speedy's, right next to the door of 221B.

"Well this is a prime spot, must be expensive?" He wondered out loud, giving the whole building another once over before turning to Sherlock expectantly.

"Well," he began, fixing John with blank look. "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal-owes me a favor."

John nodded for him to continue. "A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." John eyes widened. That is certainly impressive and interesting. He struggled to find his words, a bit shocked.

"so wait-wait you..you stopped her husband being executed?" the corner of his mouth turning up a bit.

"Oh no." Sherlock said, stone faced and staring off and over John.

"I ensured it."

Oh.

Well.

Before John could say much more, an older woman in a floral dress that went down to her calves came outside and looked so chuffed to see them. "Sherlock!" she cried, a broad smile on her face and arms outstretched as bent down slightly to wrap him up in a hug affectionately.

"Mrs. Hudson" he almost hummed, his voice full of adoration for her as he returned her embrace. They parted and she turned to John, and ushered them both inside quickly.

She was absolutely lovely.

* * *

 

John had no idea how got where he was but he thought he must be going mad because he quite thoroughly enjoyed it. Currently running around town, through back streets and on top of buildings-and trying to catch a killer for christ’s sake! The night air filling his lungs with a burning awareness, all that mattered was right now. And he couldn’t be happier. His heart was pounding faster than it had in months and his head was clear and fuzzy at the same time, skin buzzing with the night time cold and it was all he could do not to break out in giggles as he ran with Sherlock, who for all the world looked like some kind of superhero, his coat billowing behind him like a cape. He felt positively electric.

* * *

 

They stumbled into the doors of 221B, both panting and out of breath, almost wheezing. They leaned against the wall, hearing the loud thuds of their body’s on it. John started laughing, high pitched and joyful and absolutely embarrassing. Sherlock followed suit and his deep laughter contrasted with his own so ridiculously that it made him laugh even harder.

"That was the craziest thing" he panted, a broad smile on his face "That I have ever done."

Sherlock looked straight ahead, trying in vane to stop his laughter, grinning from ear to ear. He can’t remember that last time he felt this elated, if he had ever felt it at all. A warmth pooled in his chest and made his fingers curl.

"And you invaded Afghanistan." Another round of giggles from John just before he he sighed and tried to calm himself, still laughing.

"That wasn't just me."

* * *

 

Later that night, John stood on the other side of the crossing tape, innocently looking at the scene, spotting Sherlock becoming increasingly annoyed by the insistence of the EMTs to place the scratchy orange colored shock blanket around his shoulder. He had to stifle a laugh as he could practically see the snark emanating off of him as he complained to Lestrade, who seemed to take it with a smile. Then he saw the face, the face that meant brilliance was at work, the not-so-blank stare off into the distance as he read off the data his mind supplied to him. Then he looked to his left, and caught John's eye and stopped talking. Stopped saying whatever incredible thing he was explaining, and just stared slightly open mouthed at him.His head snapped back to Lestrade, and if his gestures meant anything, he was dismissing something. John bit his inner lip to keep from laughing as he heard Sherlock yell, with the police lights flashing all around him, "Oh what now? I'm in shock look-I've got a blanket!" Lestrade eventually threw his hands up in surrender and when Sherlock was sure he wasn't looking, he rolled up the blanket and tossed it into the open window of a police car before coming to stand in front of John. John almost stumbled over his words.

"Sgt. Donovan has been explaining everything. Two pills? Dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful." He furrowed his brows, and looked up into Sherlock's eyes, the picture of innocence. Sherlock only looked down at him, a broad smile threatening at his lips, eyes light and full of spark.

"Good shot." He said and John nodded, turning his head away and then back at Sherlock.

"Yes" he said "yes, must have been, to go through that window."

"Only you'd know." the hint of a smile was still there, Sherlock looked like he was barely fighting it off. John didn't know what to say, so he stayed quiet, licking his lips on habit, and kept up Sherlock's ridiculous eye contact.

"Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers? I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but lets avoid the court case." His voice was deep and low, aware of the other people around. John cleared his throat and looked away, shifting from one leg to another.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, eyes furrowing in what now looked like genuine concern and studying him intently.

"Yes, course I'm all right." John looked up again. Determined not to blow his own cover.

"Because you have just killed a man."

"Yes, I-"

Bugger.

But then John's mind caught up. Oh. So the cabbie died. "That's true now.." he mumbled a little. But his head shot back up with a quip, "But he wasn't a very nice man." Sherlock’s brows furrowed in mock realization.

"No, no he really wasn't, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie." Sherlock laughed at this, a breathy whispered chuckle that made his eyes crinkle and lips stretch wide in a gleeful grin.

"That's right he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here." Now it was John's turn to laugh as they walked away, before remembering where they were and why.

"Stop! Stop we can't giggle it's a crime scene, stop it." he said in between fits of breathy giggles, the adrenaline finally starting to settle. After discovering Sherlock Holmes had a brother, and after agreeing on dinner at a Thai restaurant at 3 in the morning, John decided that he didn't care if it was crazy as all hell. He had a flat mate now.

* * *

 

Going back to his little flat just on the outside of London didn't feel right to John. Where it had felt cozy and livable before, it now felt gray and confined. He thought of 221B, and of Mrs.Hudson, her cafe below and the smells that floated up, of fresh baked bread and biscuits and tea, how the fireplace in the cluttered flat gave a calming sound, the colors of the walls a deep mocha and soft greens making John think of bitter chocolate and coffee beans, and of course there was Sherlock. John decided it would be ridiculous to go to sleep now, it was almost 5 A.M and he was nowhere near tired. So instead he hurriedly kicked off his shoes, setting up his work station just as meticulously as before, only this time with a bit of a spring in his step, and he remembered with a smile that his cane was sitting in 221B, because he didn't even need it. He started with a pencil first, drawing out the basic shape of poppy flowers, sprouting wildly in a few choice areas of the paper. He went a lot slower this time around, really taking the time to appreciate each stroke of his pencil, making sure he was satisfied. This wasn't just an ordinary customer after all. This was Sherlock Holmes. John then drew a small fish, with whispy and graceful fins weaving in and out of the stems. The rest he decided would be up for color. In his technique of art, color was the key. Yes, drawing certain elements out, creating the focal point, was important as well but a command of color was what he thrived on. Working with wet on wet was probably his favorite way to do things, you had to be quick and careful and precise. John took pride in being all of those things.

It was around 7:45 in the morning now and John now realizes that staying up all night was. A. Huge. Mistake. And to his astonishment he received a text messaged, at this ungodly time of the morning.

_So are you impressed?-SH_

And John thought for a moment about the flat. How cozy it was on the inside, despite the drugs bust of course, and it had felt right to be there. He inwardly groaned when he remembered he had to move all of his belongings that far, and how much money it would probably cost to hire movers.

_Yes, it's a lovely place. How much will my rent be?-JW_

John barely had time to set his phone down on the counter before it chimed again, the vibration clattering it annoyingly on the acrylic surface of his bathroom counter as he undressed.

_I was talking about me.-SH_

The question was so blunt. So unabashed that John had to read it twice. Three times. Then a fourth. He flushed a bit, a frittering in his stomach.

_You do lead an exciting life.-JW_

John waited for a moment, and when an answering text never came he shrugged his shoulders, too tired to give it much thought. Stepping into the shower and wished desperately that he could curl into a little ball on the tiled floor and sleep. It was going to be a long day. It was until 11:20 that John heard from Sherlock again, his phone chiming in his pocket as he finished giving his health speech to the girl in front of him. She had come in wanting a simple koi fish on her ankle, she had brought her own design and all John had to do was put it into her skin. Two hours and one hundred pounds later he was finished.

"Also, avoid directly showering it for about a day. Just lightly splash water around it, keep it out of direct sunlight and it would be best to use sun screen." He handed her a card with the shops name printed neatly on it in roman gothic font, storm clouds and lightning all about. On the back was the number for the shop and and it also listed all the safety precautions he had just told her. She gingerly took the card from him, putting her shoe back slowly as to not disturb the bandaging around the new tattoo. She stood up and trailed her hand down the length of his shoulder and exposed arm, giving him a sly wink. "Maybe I'll come visit you again, John." She said with a purr in her voice. John was suprised, not many had the nerve to flirt with him at work. She was pretty, a tan and toned blonde little thing in a pair of capris that stopped at her knee and a white tank top. "You have my number." she winked. Truth be told John did, but that's only because it's mandatory before getting any work done. She sauntered away to the front counter, where she bought some soothing topical lotions before John heard her heels clack on the floor as she left the building. John exhaled, nervousness leaving him. He might give her a call later. Her name was Susan and she was a banker, so she would be able to hold up a good conversation, John supposed. Maybe he'll ask her on a date. He reached into his pocket and clicked the screen up. 

_Isn't it almost your lunch break?-SH_

John looked at the clock on the wall, he still had about 30 minutes to go.

_Yes but why?-JW_

_I have a few questions. Also bringing you lunch, and a coffee. How do you take yours?-SH_

John was completely baffled. Sherlock Holmes was bringing him coffee and lunch? While John knew he wasn't cruel, Sherlock also didn't seem like the type of man who did favors like this. He figured he should answer, and anyway after a sleepless night food and coffee sounded brilliant.

_Come if you like, and black please.-JW_

John thought for a moment before shooting another off.

_Thank you.-JW_

The thirty minutes came much faster than John had expected, Naomi had just finished cleaning and restocking his station when he heard the front door open, heavy and paced steps approaching the counter. Naomi peeked her head through the door frame and wiggled her eyebrows at John.

"Your Romeo is here and he brought you food." She smiled brightly, her sing song voice teasing John. He looked at her with mock anger, a smile tugging his lips as well.

"I'll 'Romeo' you in a minute." he gritted what he knew was a horrible comeback, but she laughed anyway as he got closer.

"John that sounds dirty!" her mock horror evident on her face, John playfully shoved her with his shoulder with a sarcastic "oops sorry" and kept pushing and pressing her away in exaggerated movements of his shoulder until she was fighting for breath in between giggles and went back to her post in the piercing chair, taking out her phone and waiting for a client to come in, the ghost of a smile on her face. John finally round the corner to see Sherlock, in another fitted suit and the same ridiculously long winter coat, but minus the scarf. Still completely inappropriate for the warm weather they were having. Sherlock smiled politely at John, taking in his suite. It was still so strange seeing someone in his profession dressed like this. Today it was a dark navy suit, with a baby blue button up shirt even a teal and black striped tie. Sherlock handed him a medium sized container of coffee in a styrofoam cup that had been wrapped in a thick cozy to keep the heat in. The name on the label read "Caravan." He'd heard of that place, never been though. He took one sip and it was like his mouth exploded in flavor. The coffee was black yes, but there was something about it's richness, the way his body seemed to become energized almost instantly. It was damn delicious. "Ah thank you so much. I am exhausted." John sighed, and ushered for them to go into another small room down the hallway, there was a table and a few chairs, clearly the lunch area.

"You didn't sleep last night." Sherlock observed. He had a plastic bag labeled "Angelos" in his right hand, and he set it on the counter, long muscular fingers working the plastic down and sliding John a styrofoam to-go box absolutely full with Italian treats. On one side he had a quite large piece of lasagna, rd sauce and meat spilling over, warm and steaming. Next to it was probably the single biggest meat ball John had ever seen, arranged neatly in the center of angel hair pasta, herbs viable in the winding noodles. And finally on the end was a cut of a muffuletta sandwich, bread toasted but still fluffy with olives and slices of salami and pepperoni and turkey and mozzarella and an assortment of other things he didn't know the name of all smashed together and sitting next to it was a small container of olive oil and herbs, for dipping he assumed. John's mouth was watering and looked back up to Sherlock, clearly grateful but also confused. Sherlock merely sat down, keeping his eyes on the box too. "I didn't know what you liked or wanted, so I ordered you a sampler." he said before nodding in the direction of the food. John sat down, and didn't know which he wanted to tackle first. He decided the lasagna would be easiest, if he was going to have a conversation at simultaneously. He reached into the back for the small plastic wrapped fork and knife, also made of plastic before popping the package open and unsheathing the utensils.

"Thank you very much. You didn't have to do this." John looked at him with sincerity.

"Nonsense, I wanted to, after last night."

"You make it sound like we shagged or something." he chuckled. When he got no response from Sherlock, John started to feel uneasy. He awkwardly looked down, before hearing his phone chime in his pocket. He pulled it out confused, before seeing it was from Naomi.

_Really John. Really._

Nice to know she was eavesdropping. He was so going to spill something on the floor later just to make her clean it up. "So" he coughed, "What did you need to talk about?" John took a bite of lasagna, and if heaven had a tomato saucy, oregano flavor, he was sure this was it. Sherlock put his elbows on the table then, leaning towards John just a bit, feeling the anxiety prickle in his legs again. There was a tightness in his chest, a weight that was trying to desperately stop him from asking what he was going to.

"I want you to give me something, today. After you finish eating." Sherlock's voice sounded a lot more confident than he felt, but he supposed that was a good thing. John almost spit out the coffee, and he stared at Sherlock wide eyed. Was he absolutely serious? If this was a joke, it was a weird one. Sherlock took a deep breath and continued, "You said it would feel like fire getting work done on my back, over my..you know. So I want you to give me something on my arm, or shoulder. To better..acclimate me for whats coming I suppose." Sherlock finished, and bit the inside of his cheek, tension coiling in his gut. John took a few more bites until his lasagna was gone, before slicing a bit of his meat ball just to taste it he was incredibly full. Sherlock was thankful for the delay, but began to stamp his foot nervously nonetheless.

"Alright." John said, staring off into space and nodding his head. He gestured his fork in the air towards his station.

"Go get my book, bring it back here, pick out what you like, and we'll do this. I'll even only charge you 50 quid because you bought me lunch." John smiled and looked at Sherlock expectantly. Just as he stood, and walked away John called after him again.

"But you have to eat this spaghetti first. I won't do it if you have an empty stomach." John tapped his fingernails against the wood of the table, smiling and taking a sip of his coffee as he heard Sherlock groan in annoyance down the hall.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please tell me if I should continue, and as always, constructive criticism is always welcome!


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